In the Long Run

They swarm and cluster on the warm, southern wall and door of my house. When the door opens they teem through the opening in a marauding frenzy. And if the door isn’t open, they slip in through cracks and fissures to join forces with the invaders already inside.

My house is crawling with boxelder bugs. They march along as if they have a purpose, although I’m sure they have none, save to vex and annoy me. They are actually quite harmless, but I still don’t want them clambering everywhere throughout my house.

I’ve found them on the walls, carpet, and drapes. They poke along on my couch, and slip down the sides of my bathtub. Since they can fly, I wonder why they don’t fly out of the tub, but they never do. But they do, of course, like to fly off the dining room curtains, over the shoulders of my dinner guests and right into the enchiladas being served.

So I play the Glad Game like Pollyanna. As she says, the game is “to just find something about everything to be glad about”, no matter what it is. Even boxelder bugs. So…

I’m glad we have the boxelder bugs because that means it has been a warmer than normal fall.

I’m glad we have boxelder bugs, and not cockroaches, or worse, mice.

I’m glad they don’t sting, and their rare bites don’t hurt.

I’m glad that we have boxelder bugs, because now my son vacuums frequently because he detests the hoards crawling around by the ping pong table.

I’m glad for the joy it gives my husband when he can educate me on scientific classification and the anatomical make-up of the boxelder bugs. “You know that boxelder bugs are true bugs,” he pontificates. “They’re of the order Hemiptera, which means half-wing. The thorax and abdomen appear to be fused, but really are not, if you look closely at them. Don’t worry about them eating your enchiladas—they only suck plant juice through their proboscises.”

The Glad Game only works to a certain extent. I’ll be glad when the boxelder bugs are gone.

Posted by Cyppy at 3:34 PM  3 comments

I teach a free weight class at the YMCA called Power Flex. This session all the participants in the class are women, and we have a good time working out together doing squats, lunges, dips, pushups, presses, curls, deadlilfts, and other exercises that are undoubtedly sculpting and toning our bodies into maiden-like physiques. I constantly remind the women that “strong women stay young”, and I think most of us are evidence that my little mantra is true. Well, we think young, anyway. We have a good time.

One of the women in the class, Peggy, has really impressed me. She sets up her equipment in the back of the gym, but still in the center so I can always easily see her. She is serious about her weight-lifting, and challenges herself each week. She pays close attention to my cues, and has good form and technique. In these aspects, the other class members are very similar to her.

There are a couple of things, though, that set Peggy apart from the rest. She always has an encouraging smile on her face when she comes to class. She keeps smiling throughout class, even during repetitive, groaning lunges. She smiles appreciatively at my corny jokes. And after class, even if she is drained and tired, she is still smiling and cheerful, and nearly always gives me what I feel to be sincere compliments.

Peggy often puts away MY equipment after class when I am distracted with other class members or duties, and then stays even longer to assist me when I rack and cover the weights. She is sincerely helpful, and, well, nice. These attitudes and actions might be fawning and sycophantic when rendered by another, but Peggy is genuinely unpresumptuously pleasant.

I can’t help but contrast the way she is nice, with the way I described myself as nice at the end of a previous blog. Peggy’s goodness is pro-active. At times, my niceness is only the absence of malice. My Power Flex class is definitely better with the attendance of Peggy—a strong, nice, woman.

Posted by Cyppy at 9:20 PM  1 comments

The race director announced through his megaphone that the race would begin when the lederhosen-clad man blew his Alpen horn. We all gathered near the start line, and I found myself at the front, not altogether willingly. I knew I would certainly not be a race leader of any kind.

The horn emitted a deep, foghorn tone, but everyone just kind of stood there, a little unsure. I knew this was the starting sound, because I had watched the start of the half-marathon minutes earlier. “OK,” I thought. And I surged across the start line. For a brief second, I led the whole field of runners!

Of course I didn’t even try to stay in the lead. I was determined to avoid starting out too fast, which would have been an easy mistake to make, since the adrenalin was pumping, and I felt ready to run. Instead I settled into a comfortable, easy stride that I knew was right about my training pace.

I eyed a couple of women up ahead whom I had noticed before the race. A perky blonde, and a muscular black-haired woman, they wore tank tops emblazoned with the words, “Marathon Maniacs”, and a running club affiliation. They were running together, and chatting. Soon the muscular woman pulled away and began running a faster pace. The blonde stayed within my sight, and I thought she might be a good pacing partner.

After a few miles I was quite close to Blonde Maniac, and I boldly asked her what her pace was, as I thought that maybe we could run together. She giggled, and said, “I have no idea!” “Give me a break,” I thought. Anyone who is in a running club, and has obviously run races before, knows approximately at what pace she runs. Perhaps she was just being strategically coy, but at any rate, she seemed disinterested in running with me, so I methodically moved away. A couple of miles later, she passed me while running and chatting with a tan, younger man. I was tempted to stay on their heels, but with great discipline I maintained my steady pace, which still felt comfortable, even as they began to pull away from me. The miles clicked by.

Shortly before the halfway point of the marathon, I realized I had nearly caught up to the blonde Maniac, and her tan companion. I saw him suddenly pick up his speed, and leave her, and I wondered if he had decided that the first half of the marathon had been too slow. I stayed close to the blonde, and I was just behind her as we crossed the picture-taking point on the bridge. I gradually gained on her, as she slowed down on a short hill.

I still thought she and I could run efficiently together, so once again, I asked her if she wanted to run with me. “I think we can help each other on that steep hill coming up at mile 20,” I suggested. “Oh, I’m doing a recovery pace now,” she responded blithely, and seemed to slow even more.

Mentally I shrugged, and concluded she definitely didn’t want me around, so I moved ahead, but still at my solidly steady pace. A half mile later I came across her former companion, Tan Boy, struggling a bit. He gasped “Good job,” as I sailed past him down a hill.

Now I was quite alone, and on a relatively flat, but winding road, at miles 16 and 17. I still felt pretty good, and I focused on running these two miles smoothly at pace. The road had no shoulder, but up to now, there had been very little traffic.

Suddenly a Mazda Miata convertible came roaring around a bend, much too close for my comfort. Within seconds, another Miata convertible followed, again, forcing me off the pavement. I clenched my teeth, and signaled the NEXT Miata’s driver to take it down a notch. By the time the fifth and sixth convertibles drove by, their speeds were much less threatening. It must have been a convention or something. There were probably 15 cars in their cavalcade, providing an interesting distraction.

Back on the straightaway, I saw a runner about 300 yards in the distance, and I seemed to be gradually gaining on him or her. By mile 18 I had caught up and was very surprised to discover that it was the black-haired Muscular Maniac. “Uh-huh. Started out too fast,” I silently gloated.

However I was still worried about the upcoming steep hill, so I tried being nice. “Stay with me, and we can help each other up the hill,” I coaxed. Muscular Maniac didn’t even look at me as she muttered, “I’m not sure I can keep your pace.” Since I knew she had been running much faster than I for most of the race, I ventured, “I’m running an 8:30 per mile pace. I bet you can maintain that.”

Now she looked at me, her eyes shadowed by her sunglasses. “You’re running 8:30?” I heard an edge in her voice, and then she looked straight ahead and began striding out. Within seconds she was 5 yards ahead of me. Again I fought down the urge to pick up my speed and stay with her.

“Great.” I chided myself. “I should have just passed her without saying anything.” Instead it appeared that I had sparked her competitive cogs and propelled her forward with renewed vigor.

I could feel my sports bra chafing my skin raw, and I had to stop at the next aid station to reapply some Vaseline. The volunteer could not find the lubricant, and then had great difficulty squeezing any out of the tube because it was very cold. It seemed to take an eternity, although it was probably only about 30 seconds. I was frustrated because I could see Muscular Maniac increasing her lead while I was stalled.

I trailed her all the way up that long, arduous, mile-long mountain. At one point I had to stop and walk for a couple of minutes. Muscular Maniac was still running, or at least appeared to be, but I was smugly satisfied to see that her short, choppy steps kept any further distance from growing between us. I hoped I had the legs left to really push it once I got going downhill. I wanted to take her.

The apex of the climb was a turnaround, and I began flying downhill. I knew my quads would pay for it the next day, but I could taste the satisfaction of passing Muscular Maniac. And halfway down the hill, I did. She stayed close to me the rest of the race, but I never realized how close, because I refused to look back over my shoulder to see where she was. Only later would I learn that I only advanced about a minute and a half in time on her in the last 6 miles. If only she hadn’t started out so fast at the first of the race…. tsk, tsk.

I had hoped to see my husband somewhere between miles 21 and 25. Due to a couple of unfortunate glitches in his travel plans, he had not even arrived in Leavenworth by the start of the race. I pushed on, hoping I’d see him parked in his rental car on the opposite side of the road. Mile 24 to Mile 25 seemed exceptionally tough, and there was no sign of him.

The last mile of the course was a trail by the side of a river. It was shady, and the dirt path provided a softer impact for my aching joints. I willed myself to maintain pace, and to keep pumping my legs and arms. I rounded a bend, and my husband was there, camera focused and ready to snap pictures! He backpedaled and took a couple more shots.

“I’m going to run to the finish line to get some pictures!” he yelled. Normally I might have tried to beat him. Today I kept my pace, as I had done the entire three hours, forty-four minutes, and some-odd seconds previously.

I crossed the finish line strong, and though sore, I was extremely satisfied. It was probably my best effort at a consistent, solid, steady race. Throughout the marathon I had tried to recruit a running partner to help me achieve my goal, but I proved to myself that I could be successful on my own. In the long run, that lesson learned is more of a prize than the medal and winner's glass I received.

Posted by Cyppy at 11:21 AM  5 comments

I received a rather startling picture on my cell phone a few days ago. It was an ultrasound picture of my first grandchild. It was a singular experience, and my reaction to the picture surprised me.

I knew that my son’s wife was pregnant, and I had responded to the initial announcement with the usual congratulatory compliments, and legitimate concern over the mother-to-be’s health. The role of grandmother was not one I had anticipated with eager longing, but on the other hand, I was not recoiling in horror either. I was open to the idea, but possibly still somewhat lukewarm. I figured that I would have several months to get used to the thought of being someone’s grandma.

Then the ultrasound picture showed up on my phone, and several more pictures arrived by email. I was fascinated and intrigued by the shadowy images of this new life. The realization that this tiny being was related to me was thrilling in its simplicity, and sobering in its enormity. Suddenly grandparenthood seemed very real, and even satisfyingly pleasant. Amazingly, I began to look at this new chapter in my life with a tingle of excitement.

So now I ask you…. isn’t this just the cutest grandbaby you’ve ever seen?!

Posted by Cyppy at 8:15 AM  4 comments